History
by L122yTorch
Summary: An ice cold alien decides to show Captain Kirk and his crew how easy it is for him to unearth the past. This race doesn't grasp the meaning of "let sleeping dogs lie," and their leader shows Kirk and his deck crew snippets of Kirk's past...things he's never told anyone. Who will he turn to once the damage has been done?
1. Chapter 1

There was no time to think, no room to breathe. Jim's blue eyes were blown wide with panic, his vision sending him telltale threats of impending hyperventilation. He took measured breaths to slow his heart and balled his fingers into his fists.

Before him was the expansive window off the deck that had become a video monitor, behind him was the majority of his crew, staring at the screen.

"Shut it off," he ground out through a locked jaw. "I can't sir…" the officer replied, frantically manipulating the technology before him; but to no avail.

Just moments ago he had been staring into the face of an alien. He hadn't known the creature long but already wanted to punch the smug expression right off his sharply contoured blue face.

The vid was automatically translating as he spoke to the Enterprise's deck crew.

"You are quite the individual James Tiberius Kirk," the thing had said to him. "I like to know who I'm dealing with and I've done my research on you… and on Starfleet," the thing shifted in it's seat.

"Humans always think that they can escape their past actions, but they can't. I want you to know just how capable I am in my research," it smiled bearing rows of pointed snow white teeth. "I wanted to see firsthand the kind of person that Starfleet would put in charge of such a vessel," a beat of silence elapsed.

"So what'd you find out?" Kirk stood and asked the cerulean face with a tinge of intrigue. The being on the monitor moved forward and cocked his head, blinking up with his lower lids. The sight was enough to send a shiver down the captain's spine. "I can't decide if you are a criminal or a hero," it responded, the screen instantly turning gray as the still forming words came to a halt in Jim's throat.

In front of him was…himself, as a child. His boyish face was caked in dirt, his bright golden hair dark with sweat. He was holding up a set of numbers. A voice crackled to life. "James Tiberius Kirk, zero three four six nine, evading arrest, destruction of public property, grand theft auto," as the words were being spoken his profile shifted right then left.

The video changed.

"Stop citizen," he heard the voice he hadn't heard since he was a child. On the screen was the tape taken from the officer's vehicle as he chased the red car into oblivion. The image slowed down and zoomed in as Jim flung himself from the car and it careened off the cliff's edge.

Then he saw himself upon the screen again, a little older. "James Tiberius Kirk…" the voice read again. "Breaking and entering, destruction of public property," the screen broke away to another incident. "James Tiberius Kirk…" the words fuzzed in and out this time and what Jim saw made him feel sick.

He stood bruised and battered, naked save for his boxers. "Assault with a deadly weapon," the unnaturally even female voice spoke. "Shut it off," he choked out. But they couldn't shut it off and Jim watched as glove hands arranged his young body in order to take more photos.

"Charges dropped due to signs of abuse and evidence of self defense," the voice chimed in. The gloved hands put Jim's right arm under his chin, turned his face and put his left hand over his face. The screen highlighted the marks like the seams of a puzzle piece.

A bright red gash lined up perfectly from his lefthand, down a step to his face, across his right arm. It was evident that he was trying to protect himself.

The rest of his body was covered in a procession of purpling bruises.  
And then there were the crime scene photos of his kitchen, torn to shreds, with police tape. And a large kitchen knife whose dimensions fit perfectly in his palm.

Again the image shifted.

"Breaking and entering, destruction of public prop…op…erty," the voice broke. There was Jim's lithe body scaling a ten story building - the hospital. A brick came out beneath his fingers and he slipped for a moment before catching himself on a window sill. And then he was pounding at the glass window with his fists until it gaveway with a shatter.

And then there was Jim swinging a sledgehammer at a tombstone until it broke apart like dried play doh.

And there was Daniel, his very best friend; like a brother. They were walking together. And the image once again morphed in an instant. Jim felt as though he were experiencing visual and emotional whiplash.

On the screen there was a large boy standing over Jim as a child, beating him with his fists mercilessly. Daniel was running towards him when the bully lifted him by the gold locks at the back of his neck and slammed his face down on a hot electric warmer used for the cold Iowa winters.

His mouth shot open in a scream, but there was no audio. The bully's henchman saw Daniel coming and pulled out a knife.

Jim's hands were trembling, he was fighting the urge to scream or pass out. He knew what was coming next and he didn't wish to see it, but he couldn't rip his gaze away either.

The henchman shoved the knife into Daniel's abdomen and again Kirk's mouth flew open in a scream, his face raised to watch. That's when law enforcement arrived. That's why he broke into the hospital…because they wouldn't let him in to see Daniel.

There was an image of them, Jim and Daniel with their foreheads pressed together, Jim's hands on either side of his face. And then the snapshot melted away.

"Main suspect in the arson of Dean Valdeer's home," the words sprang to life. There again was the picture of Dean hovering over Jim. His face was clipped out and appeared on the arson file. "No charges were filed…insufficient evidence.." her voice was cut off. There was a vid of a shadowy figure walking away from a farm house. It exploded violently behind the person all wrapped in black. The camera zoomed in on the figure, tried to scale it, get a height and weight measurement but it couldn't due to bulky clothes and the fact that the person was hunched over.

There was a beat of a moment revealed where Jim's stepfather had him held up by the throat. Another visual shock of him beating someone up. There was a still of Daniel carrying an unconscious Jim and of Jim yelling at Sam…

His past came unraveling like a ball of yarn and it stung at his eyes…clawed at his heart. Here he was seven, there he was fourteen, in this one he was battered, in that one he was the batterer, there were law enforcement numbers and dropped charges and even a shot of him wearing a prisoners uniform and disappearing into a juvenile hall.

Seeing all of it at once, and so unexpectedly made the Starfleet officer want to puke. His past was painful and lonely - he felt small and insignificant. It was a part of him that he spent the better part of a decade hiding and here it was spewing across his deck and into the minds of his crew.

The flipbook of vids and pics slowed down and finally stopped on an image of Jim taken before he was sent to Tarsus IV. And then next to it appeared a waist-up photo of when he had returned.

His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, his lips badly cracked and broken, his ribs jutted out from the thin flesh that concealed them. The voice calmly delivered the number of people sent to Tarsus IV and then revealed the number who had survived.

"Interfering with a law enforcement investigation," the same voice said. "Assaulting an officer." There was Jim, now dressed in clothes that were drowning him, his same sullen face, holding a set of numbers as his profile shifted each way.

And then there was security camera footage of Jim and an interrogator. "What the hell happened over there," the man yelled. "I did what I had to to survive," Jim yelled right back, the veins on his neck standing out vividly against his near deathly pale skin.

The interrogator now stood, hunched and leaning on the table, his brown eyes boring into Jim. He yanked but his hands were tethered together, he remembered the heat crawling to his face, his movements futile against the ties, his vision turning red. "And did that include murdering people? Did that involve cannibalism?" In a swift movement Jim attacked him but the vid cut out.

The shocking blue face of the alien was jarring. The cavalcade of Jim's personal history brought to a halt. "Much of these things were deleted, expunged or dropped but we have them anyway," the thing said. "And I want your Starfleet to know that we have no bounds when it comes to unearthing the past," it said, as if it had attained some pertinent information and hid it behind it's bright orange eyes.

"Good day Captain Kirk," it said with a sly smirk and then vanished. The window was once more a window, looking out on the stars adjacent to this foreign planet.

Jim could feel the weight of tempered breaths and pointed stares. His chest felt like it was being gripped by an iron fist that could easily crush the life out of him. He focused on the stars in front of him, he stood unmoving for a minute, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.

Finally he turned around. The first gaze he caught was Spock's. He knew that it wasn't a look of pity but he felt some emotion there, running hot like a stream beneath the ice of his usually stolid expression.

He wondered what his own face must look like. If his sky blue eyes were relaying the panic he felt coursing through his chest. What Spock saw, what his deck crew saw, they never should have seen, they shouldn't even know.

Slowly he sat down in the command chair. There was only 25 minutes left in Alpha shift, and with a tight grip on both arms of the chair, he steadied his breath and hoped that he could make it.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim was acutely aware of every minute that passed and still remained in his shift. It seemed like the 25 minutes had morphed into 40 and by the time it was over he had to refrain from bolting off the bridge.

He gulped and stood, hyper-aware of every gaze that fell on him, and also keenly aware of those gazes that didn't fall on him, but concentrated too hard on work that didn't exist.

The entire stroll to his chambers, Jim felt like he couldn't breathe. Every time he blinked an image flashed before his eyes. Him bloody and beaten, his boyish face reflecting an adult-weight stress. His sweaty forehead pressed up against Daniel's as his friend consoled him. The bright orange fireball that engulfed Dean's run-down farmhouse.

Things he hadn't thought about in years, things that he struggled to forget, suddenly came flooding back, crashing into his mind like a tidal wave.

He mentally chided himself for becoming so "emotionally compromised" over information that was hardly new to him. This was his past. This was his life. Why was it so … startling?

It felt so raw and naked, like the events that graced the screen had just transpired and the wounds were fresh and ripe; there for his entire bridge crew to witness.

Finally he reached the door to his chambers.

The space suddenly felt unbearably small and unnervingly quiet. He ran a nervous hand around the back of his neck and moved to sit on the bed to calm himself down.

He wanted to punch that damn alien. He wanted to show him the business end of his phaser. He wanted to scream or cry or shake or … just… god, I don't even know.

Jim stood suddenly, unable to stand still in the solitary space. He ran a hand through his hair and considered what to do, where to go. He wondered what Daniel would say about all of this. About him being captain, about what just happened. Daniel. The name rang in his head and vibrated in his heart.

He couldn't take being in this room anymore.

He found himself hurriedly walking down another bleach white hallway. His footsteps echoed of desperation, his heart thumping wildly in his head.

"Computer, find James Kirk," Spock said into a glowing portal. It was taking longer than usual to find his captain and he felt uneasy standing in the hallway, asking for information he wasn't supposed to be searching for.

Suddenly the image sprang to life and there, represented as a red dot in a blueprint of an abandoned viewing room, was Jim.

Spock questioned his motives for finding his captain. He had no work-related inquiry to make, no pertinent information to deliver. He simply desired to be in Jim's presence, to assure that…that he was okay.

The Vulcan was well aware that emotions ran strongly through his friend. He could see the broken sadness burning in his bright blue eyes as he turned to him on the bridge. The usually glowing and confident man seemed broken. The look on his face resembling that of one of the mug shots that had just been up on the screen. There was a fear, an uncertainty and an embarrassment that rolled off of his broad golden shoulders in waves.

And in that moment, Spock so desperately wanted to repair the situation, to comfort Jim, to do something…anything.

He reached the viewing room and felt nervous. Which, for Spock, was undoubtedly a rare feeling to experience.

The door in front of him slid open, revealing his form standing in the bright empty hallway. He chased his shadow into the room, just far enough that the door would slide shut behind him.

Jim didn't turn around. He was in front of a large viewing screen, his right hand on the controls, his face intently trained on the images being presented.

All of the footage that was broadcast to the bridge crew, Jim had recalled and brought to the screen. He knew someone was standing at the foot of the room, he knew it was Spock.

But his eyes couldn't leave the haunting image of himself on the ground.

His hair was dark with dirt, sweat slid across his face, his features were twisted in fear.

Spock moved closer.

There was Dean. All brown tousled hair and muscle, his face bleeding from where Jim had punched him repeatedly. But this time, Dean had the advantage.

The larger boy hit Jim and then grasped a large fistful of his hair, dragging him toward the heater. In the video you could see Daniel running towards him.

Jim took in a heaving breath as Daniel became visible, tears stinging at his eyes.

The child-like version of Jim twisted and struggled, grappled and clawed, but his strength was drained, he was out-manned, out-muscled. Adult Jim's stomach twisted and lurched, liquid pain blurring his vision as he witnessed himself being thrown down onto the heater.

He'll never forget the way that raging heat felt as it seared into his flesh…the way it smelled. The boy screamed, and Daniel was screaming, tears falling from his friend's tan face. And then Adrian grabbed Daniel and punched him.

Although he couldn't hear the words, he knew them by heart. He heard them echo in his mind. "Do it!" Dean said as he flipped Jim over to look at Daniel. "But…" Adrian protested. "I SAID DO IT!" Dean screamed. And in a flash of light and silver, Adrian had pierced Daniel in the abdomen with a knife.

Jim stood immediately, turning his back to the screen, his hand over his mouth to stop the screaming sob that was forming there. He was shaking. The video had stopped.

Heavy breaths were racing in and out of his nose and his mouth and his head felt like it was spinning. He was making a sound…a small, desperate sound that cut through the silence of the room like a laser.

Spock took steps forward and Jim's eyes snapped up to acknowledge the fact that he was there. He was really there. And he lurched towards Spock as Spock closed the short distance between them.

Jim's head fell onto Spock's shoulder, his hands flying up to wrap around the commander's body. A whimper, a whine, a desperate noise rose from his throat and tears burned at his eyes.

But then he broke contact. The clinging hug dissolved just as quickly as it had appeared with Jim staggering back, still heaving lungfuls of panicked air.

Red, white and blue eyes shot straight through Spock in a gaze that the Vulcan thought could break him into a thousand pieces.

Jim's lips parted, salty tears sliding in past his lips. Spock waited for the words that were forming there, but he was unprepared for their gravity.

"He died Spock," the exclamation exploded into the small distance between them.

Spock looked surprised.

After Jim spoke the words, he clenched his jaw and with a furrowed brow stared down at the floor.  
His soft pink bottom lip trembled. "My fault…" he said, his brain on fire with guilt and pain. "I just couldn't let…" his voice cracked, "I just couldn't let what Dean had done to me go…couldn't end the rivalry" the sentence ended in a whisper. "And it got him killed."

He looked up at Spock, whose usually cool demeanor was compromised. His human eyes empathized, comforted, longed to heal a wound that would never close.

"I was in love with him," Jim heard himself say, the words gone before he could get them back.

Spock's mouth was open, but there were no words he could gather that would be important enough. So he drew his lips together, gulped, blinked, tried to push down the emotions he felt at having just been made aware of Jim's painful past.

"I…" but nothing else could follow. So instead he tentatively reached out his hands and placed timid fingertips on Jim's arms, and then palms, in an exploratory embrace that reached around to Jim's back. He brought his body forward to fully embrace his friend.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the images of Daniel bleeding out on the cement, his face badly burned as he cradled his friend, waiting for the medical transport to the hospital.

Warm liquid devastation fell from his tired eyes and soaked into the bright blue science uniform beneath him.


	3. Chapter 3

He thought he had trouble sleeping before all of this…but now, now there was no sleep to be had. For the first time in a long time, Jim felt insecure, like he was no longer on "solid ground." Like the "solid ground" he thought he stood on, never existed at all.

Thoughts constantly buzzed behind tired blue eyes that stared up at the dark ceiling. Tarsus IV, Daniel, Dean's house exploding, standing at his father's memorial each year for his birthday. It was all there, all too much to deal with. Every time he nearly slipped into sleep his thoughts turned dark with tragedy and he startled awake.

Jim's life was beautiful but tragic. And all he could see, all he could feel right now after having his history unearthed…was the tragic. There was no beauty to be found in his youth, save for Daniel.

"Daniel," he whispered the name aloud, letting his eyes drop shut.

In his mind he saw them as little boys, standing at the memorial. Jim tried not to cry, but a few tears slipped down his nine-year-old cheeks. He remembered Daniel taking him by the shoulder and leading him away from the memorial, down the hill. It was a cloudy fall day, the air felt too cold inside of Jim's lungs. They walked for a little bit, turned the corner of a building and stopped, out of sight from the other mourners.

Jim stared at Daniel in quiet anticipation.

Daniel's eyes stood out in his mind. They way they shimmered in the late afternoon light. They were so green, greener than the grass after a hard rain. They were solid, like the ground, and seeing them made a rush of peace wash over Jim. Even at that young age, he felt such a reverence for his friend, such a bond.

They were both wearing suits. It had itched at his neck, made him feel like he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His pink fingers slid beneath the starched collar and undid the black tie as Daniel swiveled and twisted around, reaching a hand to his back pocket. The hand returned to sight and produced a little red box.

Daniel smiled, and there was no pity in it, there was no questioning or concern; he just smiled a genuine smile and said "Happy Birthday Jim," as he handed the red box over to the distraught little blonde boy.

As he opened the only gift he had been given that day, and turned over the metal object within, he felt such gratefulness...to have a friend like Danny. "It's got my initials on it," the boy said, pointing at the small talisman. Jim was confused for just a split second. "It's so that, no matter where you are Jim, you'll always have me with you, as long as you've got that."

Jim's wide blue eyes took in Daniel, relishing the moment, storing it in his head for later. His small fist clenched the object tightly, like it was helping him stay alive. It was the first time Jim ever felt the urge to kiss Daniel. But in that moment, he decided instead on a hug and saved up the urge to kiss Daniel for four more years.

How many times had Daniel rescued him? Had pulled him through his window after Jim ran away, or wiped away the blood from his face after a beat down from Frank. He had been there for Jim from the time they were three to seventeen…and Jim got him killed.

He bolted up in his bed, unable to lie here in the dark and be tortured by memories.

Pulling on pajama bottoms, Jim headed out the door. He didn't know what time it was, didn't care. He was a swirling time bomb of anger and fury and sadness and despair and loneliness that threatened to tear him apart at the seams.

The corridor he strode down was empty. Only a skeleton crew was around to run the ship in the middle of the night.

He turned a corner and ended up in the rec room. Swift fingers quickly put an elaborate lock in place.

There was no one here to spar with, so the captain settled for the combat dummy.

The first time his fist connected with it's unfeeling face, he imagined it to be Frank. Furiously his hand pounded into the thing, the pale skin stretching over his muscular hand beginning to ache. He kept hitting and hitting…seeing Kodos' face in it's synthetic humanoid expression. Both hands pounded away, sending flaring jolts of pain down his fingers, over his knuckles, through his wrists and arms. Now it was Dean. His snarling features twisted into a happy expression as he gave the order that would murder Daniel. He could still hear the teenager's acid laugh rolling through the air.

Pain, there was so much pain. Losing his father, knowing that there was another time stream where he had everything, a reality he couldn't reach. Losing Daniel. Spending long days and even longer nights locked away in juvenile detention for various offenses. The gnawing hunger he felt as an adolescent that he would later realize on Tarsus IV, was nothing. The god awful things he experienced on that planet…

He had never told anyone that he considered and even attempted suicide. Once as he nearly drove off a cliff, deciding at the last minute to jump out. And once, the day after Daniel's funeral.

When did he start crying? He wasn't sure? But he was thoroughly out of breath, his hands aching, bleeding and shaking. Shame. He felt shame as he looked down at his trembling hands.

A tired, tingling weakness had sunk into his legs, both of his arms were trembling, sweat poured from his golden forehead and mixed with the cascade of tears. With bloody hands he wiped the tears from his eyes, smearing red on his face.

He hadn't cried like this … in so long. And it awoke a fury in his chest. An anger that some bullshit asshole alien was able to shake him like this…simply by presenting his own past to him. But that's just it…it wasn't just him. The whole bridge watched. He fell apart in front of Spock.

He wouldn't be surprised if Spock took away his command for being so emotionally compromised. His heart hitched in his chest. Without this command…he stopped the thought...unable to even fathom it.

With an unsteady body he lurched to the door, opened the lock and began strolling back to his quarters. The passageway seemed to keep stretching on forever, like it was a piece of taffy being pulled and stretched away from him.

Finally he reached his door, punched in the code, and the doors slid open with a familiar woosh. The room was still nearly pitch black, but his feet knew where they were going.

Kirk stood in the bathroom, wincing as he washed over his battered hands. He should call Bones, should get fixed, but dear god he wanted to avoid that conversation. He'd do it tomorrow. And a foreign wave of exhaustion was pulling him under, so after cleaning up his still throbbing hands a bit, he stumbled into the black hole room and collapsed on the bed.

For the first time in a week, Jim slept.


	4. Chapter 4

A dull throbbing in Jim's twisted hands turned into a burning thumping as the pain brought him to consciousness.

He groaned and turned over in bed, recalling his late night excursion to the rec room. Slowly, he lifted the battered and bruised hands to his sleepy face to assess the damage. There would be no way to conceal the marks, and Jim really didn't feel like going to Bones.

And some twisted part of him wanted to leave the cuts there. Like he deserved them.

Slowly he trudged out of bed, hyperaware of the drawer in his nightstand that held the talisman with the familiar initials DSA on it. Daniel Jacob Adelson.

He walked towards the bathroom on legs that felt like jelly. The door whirled open and as soon as Jim occupied the small space, Spock's voice broke through the other door to his chambers. "Captain?"

"Shit Spock, you scared me," he answered in surprise.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your personal time, but I need to speak with you."

Jim looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, surprised by the dark circles nestled beneath his eyes. Despite actually getting some sleep, he looked a mess, and now Spock wanted to speak to him?

"Uh…sure…" he said, quickly reaching out, getting two handfuls of water and splashing water on his face. He slid his wet hands through his hair and stood before Spock's door. The barrier slid open and he stepped into his first officer's chambers, hit in the chest by a woosh of warm air.

Despite being the one in charge, he felt anxious.

As Spock's mahogany eyes swept over his body, he suddenly felt very aware of the fact that he was only wearing pajama bottoms. He rubbed the back of his neck and asked "what's up?"

Spock stepped closer to his friend, his expression pulsing with emotion that bled through his usually stoic mask. "I am concerned for you."

Jim shook his head slightly, unconsciously, not wanting to have this conversation. "I'll be fine Spock," he said, finally letting the hand rubbing his neck fall to rest at his side. The Vulcan caught sight of the hand…of the bruises and cuts. Instinctively he reached out a hand and took Jim's, troubled eyebrows furrowed, eyes surveying the damage.

The touch was electric, cold, and it made Jim's heart skip. The pair were silent for a moment, but Jim decided to break the tension.

"One of the things that bothers me most…" he started timidly, "is thinking of how the crew…how you…will see me now."

Spock's eyes flew up to meet Jim's, but the captain was looking down at their hands.

"Why would I see you differently?" Spock asked.

"I don't know…because…my past, my childhood, my life isn't spotless. It's complicated and some parts of it are painful…and now you've seen that. And I haven't reacted too well to any of it. You probably think I'm…weak."

Spock's visage cracked, he looked distraught.

"If anything, I see you as stronger," he retorted, his hand still gently hanging on to Jim's. He wanted to say so much more, convey so much more of the admiration that he held for his friend. His friend who had been abused by his step-father, who had grown up without a father, who had experienced hardship and devastating loss; and yet, had ascended his circumstances and become one of the most revered captains in Star Fleet.

Jim smiled a tiny smile and let the words sink in to his wounds, and soothe them like a balm.

Spock moved closer and turned Jim's hand in his, gently caressing the soft flesh with his thumb. "Please do not ever hurt yourself on purpose," Spock said seriously, his expression darkening.

The concern in his voice made Jim felt secure, important, cared for. "I won't, I promise," he replied, turning the Vulcan's hand so that it was now resting in his, palm up. He felt such a burning desire to touch Spock's hand, to run his fingers against his friend's, and to keep going…up his arm, across his chest, down his back and all over his body.

He was cursing the fact that he was clad only in loose fitting, Star Fleet regulation pajama pants.

Friendship wasn't enough for him when it came to Spock, but he had never made his feelings known. And now, they stood face to face, Jim's past blown open for the whole bridge to see, for Spock to see. The tension between them was unbearable. Spock didn't want to overstep his bounds, and therefore tread lightly. And Jim didn't want to fall into a pit of self-pity, so he didn't say things that elicit pity or perpetuate this heaviness he felt in his chest.

Just being around Spock was enough for Jim.

He took his left hand and touched Spock's wrist, feeling blood beating quickly beneath the pale skin. Slowly he drug his fingers down, towards the palm, leaving a hot trail of sparks burning in Spock's skin. The Vulcan flushed green and stared at Jim's face, but Kirk's sky blue eyes were entranced with his actions.

Jim swept his sensitive fingertips lower, passing the root of each finger. "Jim…" Spock said breathlessly. "You are in an emotionally turbulent state."

Kirk stopped his ministrations and looked up at Spock. His face was a melting pot of affection, lust, sadness and reprehension. "Don't doubt for a second, that I know what I'm doing," he said, bringing two fingers down this time that landed on the pads of Spock's two fingers.

Electricity roared between them, the touch lit dormant sparks of affection and attraction on fire, and those sparks combusted in both their chests. A heady arousal flooded Jim's body and pulsed in his groin. Jim's mind buzzed and spun so fast that by the time he grasped and began to enjoy the effects of the Vulcan kiss, the touch was broken.

Please, please, please leave feedback, I could really use some! Thanks!


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